Gorgeous as Sin (25 page)

Chapter 26

ON REACHING HOME, Fitz sat with his mother as she breakfasted, acknowledging her attempts at conversation with distracted monosyllabic replies so often, she finally said, “Good heavens, Georgie, it’s not the end of life as you know it to actually harbor some feelings for a woman.”

He shot her a look of stunned surprise and set down the glass of brandy he was holding.

“Sweetheart,” she softly said, “you aren’t the first person in the world to be enamored. Nor is it necessarily an evil requiring three brandies at this time of day. Personally, I’d say it’s about time.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“As you wish.”

“That’s exactly what I wish,” he curtly said.

“Fine. Would you like another brandy? ”

“No. She writes erotica,” he gruffly said, looking at his mother from under his lashes. “About me.” His mouth twitched into a mocking smile. “Does that change your notion about Mrs. St. Vincent’s place in my life? ”

“What place is that, darling? ” his mother asked, unfazed by Rosalind’s writing.

“One that screws up everything.”

“Does it have to? ”

He sighed. “That unfortunately is the current riddle of the universe.”

“Because you’re about to ruin her.”

“Probably.” He rose to his feet. “I’m going north to Craievar for grouse hunting.”

“Now? ”

“Tomorrow.” He ignored Pansy dancing at his feet, yipping for attention. “Do you need anything before I go? ”

“Not at all. I’m fine, darling. Do you know when you’ll return? ”

“No.”

He was moving away from the table as he spoke, so she decided against saying what was on her mind. “Are you home for dinner tonight, dear? ” she called out.

He raised his hand and waggled his fingers in answer, and a moment later closed the breakfast room door behind him.

“My, my, my,” Julia said aloud, picking up Pansy and setting her on her lap. Her little boy was nonplused by a woman. And not just any woman, but a woman who didn’t toady to his wealth and title and wrote about his boudoir athletics. Definitely a woman of extraordinary character.

Julia checked the small calendar on the jeweled timepiece pinned to her bodice and smiled. She rather thought Fitz wouldn’t be staying in Scotland long.

 

 

ALGERNON FOUND FITZ at Brooks’s that afternoon, having been directed there by Stanley. In his moodiness, Fitz was seated alone in a corner of the reading room, safe from his friends who never read. A bottle of brandy, half-empty, sat at his elbow, a full glass in his hand, and sunk as he was in peevish, sullen reflection, Rosalind’s brother was forced to clear his throat twice before Fitz looked up.

“I’m Pitt-Riverston,” Algernon said. “I came down to London to speak with you.”

Fitz regarded Rosalind’s brother with a shuttered gaze. “May I offer you a brandy? ” he said, and after a nod from Algernon, he waved him to a chair and raised his hand for a flunkey.

The men spoke of the weather and train travel until a servant brought a glass, poured Algernon a brandy, topped off Fitz’s glass, and left.

“Now, what can I do for you? ” Fitz softly asked, the man opposite him bearing no resemblance to Rosalind, looking very much like a country solicitor dressed in his best suit.

Algernon smiled. “I was thinking perhaps I could do something for you.”

Ah
, Fitz thought.
A man with a price.
“What exactly might that be? ”

“Persuade my sister to sell her little bookstore.”

Fitz’s brows rose faintly. “You have no loyalty to your sister? ”

“Rather, Your Grace, I consider family loyalty of greater import. Something, apparently, my sister fails to recognize. As you may know, my parents have little wealth, they’re elderly, and I thought I might make it clear to Rosalind that she is now in a position”—he smiled silkily—“because of your generous offer, to alleviate the burdens of poverty for my parents.”

“You are unable to do so? ” A cool, gentle query.

“Alas, my country practice doesn’t allow for such assistance. If only I could, of course, I’d be more than willing to relieve my parents’ need.”

“You think you might be successful in persuading your sister to change her mind?” Fitz’s bland query belied his watchful gaze.

“If not, there are other ways to deal with her, Your Grace. From time to time, I take care of small legal issues for Rosalind. I drafted her husband’s will, for instance, helped her with the death duties and such. She doesn’t always take notice of what she’s signing.”

“So you would be willing to circumvent your sister’s wishes? ” Fitz said with deliberate composure.

“Only for the good of my parents, sir,” Algernon suavely returned. “For no other reason. It’s not as though Rosalind would suffer unduly. Your agent made it clear that she’d be amply compensated for her property.”

“I see.” Fitz wondered what he might have done a week ago with such an offer. “Let me think about your proposal,” he said after a moment, setting his glass on the table beside his chair. “Leave me your direction. Where are you staying in London? ”

Algernon shook his head. “I’m taking the train home today.”

“Then I can find you in Yorkshire. In the meantime, let me offer you a small payment for your journey. Will five hundred do for now?” Fitz asked, taking money from his pocket. “My architect is redrawing my project, and once he’s finished, I’ll discuss this with you again. I appreciate your interest in helping your parents. Very commendable I’m sure.” Taking out a large bill, he handed it to Algernon. “The merest down payment, sir. We’ll be talking again in the near future. Now then, may I offer you a carriage for the ride to the station? ”

His lip was curled in a faint sneer as he watched Rosalind’s brother walk from the room.
What a thoroughly unlikeable fellow. A Judas.
He could have bought him for very little. He still might.

Which was the dilemma of course.

Which was why he was sitting in the empty reading room at Brooks’s nursing a bottle of brandy, trying to deal with the chaos in his brain. Fuck. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. None of it. Not the obstinate Mrs. St. Vincent throwing a wrench into his plans, particularly not her insinuating herself into his life and raising havoc with what had been prior to their meeting a perfectly contented and orderly existence.

He knew what the remedy was; he’d known almost from the first.

Put distance between himself and his craving.

Coming to his feet, he walked from the reading room, then from Brooks’s, and swiftly made his way home. There was no need to wait until tomorrow to set off for Scotland.

In short order, Fitz was dressed in country tweeds, and along with Darby was boarding a train to Aberdeen. He was in too deep, thinking of Mrs. St. Vincent too much, going to see her like some love-struck callow youth. He might be headstrong, but he refused to be foolhardy. Not over some woman.

He’d even had Stanley telegraph ahead to insure that his gamekeeper and beaters were in readiness on his arrival. He’d concentrate on grouse hunting and salmon fishing as he’d done every August.
Before her
, the voice inside his head pithily noted.

For a fleeting moment, Fitz had debated taking Clarissa north with him but quickly dismissed the thought. If he was alone with the volatile Clarissa in the isolation of his hunting lodge he’d go out of his mind. In any event, there were local women enough to entertain him—should he be interested. Which choice of phrase stopped him cold.
Should he be interested?

Bloody hell, since when wasn’t he interested in fucking?

He was careful after that to make certain that he had distractions aplenty. He’d had Darby buy every magazine and paper at the station, and once on board, he immediately dispatched himself to the club car. As it turned out, several of his friends were traveling north for hunting, and thus he was able to divert himself enough that he managed to keep thoughts of Rosalind largely at bay.

When he stepped off the train in Aberdeen, he inhaled the cool air off the ocean, and sleepless during the long train ride, found himself looking forward to his bed. Not an immediate possibility with the lengthy drive to his lodge still before him, but in a little more than an hour he’d be snug in his hermitage.

AFTER THE THIRD day of waiting for Fitz to appear, Rosalind resigned herself to the fact that she’d been discarded like so many of his lovers. In that anxious time of expectation and dashed hopes, she’d experienced the full range of emotions: chagrin and humiliation, moping and discontent, even the occasional forlorn tear. But ultimately she’d come to the conclusion that rather than dwell on regret, she’d instead be grateful for the pleasure Fitz had given her, and get on with her life.

Never say she wasn’t of a practical bent.

In fact, she’d had a lifetime of challenging experiences to nurture that pragmatism.

She actually slept for the first time that night, reconciled to the realities of Fitz’s ephemeral passions and if not precisely content, at least no longer burdened with useless hope.

 

 

HAVING REACHED WHAT she felt was a reasonable assessment of her brief and pleasant liaison with Fitz, Rosalind was surprised at the hot wave of jealousy that swept over her when Clarissa walked into her shop two days later. Not that she knew her name; she knew only that the woman had been with Fitz at the Turner exhibit and had flaunted her intimacy with him as a lover would.

The pretty blonde was even more voluptuous at close range, Rosalind peevishly thought, her summer walking dress of rose pique displaying her considerable assets in the form-fitting style currently in fashion. Her breasts were impressive under the tailored bodice, as was her wasp waist and the swelling curve of her hips. She wore a wide-brimmed leghorn straw hat embellished with large cabbage roses and gracefully tipped to one side in order to display her magnificent ear drops of pink diamonds.

Her stylish appearance made Rosalind feel dowdy and graceless in her plain blue skirt and white blouse. She might as well have had a sign on her forehead that proclaimed
Shopkeeper,
she sourly reflected.

Clarissa didn’t even bother to pretend she’d come in for a book. She made directly for Rosalind, recognizing her as the woman Fitz had followed out of the Turner exhibit. Coming to a stop before the counter, she placed her fingertips encased in fine white kidskin on the countertop, leaned forward slightly, and said with a distinct scowl, “Where’s Fitz? Tell me.”

Rosalind was taken aback at the sharpness of her tone
and
her startling demand.

“You needn’t look so surprised. I know you’re taking him to bed,” Clarissa tartly said. What she didn’t say was that her maid had spoken to a maid at Groveland House and she’d discovered that the bookstore lady from the Turner exhibit was regarded as Fitz’s latest paramour.

That she’d resisted the inclination to view her competition for so long had to do with her tiresome husband’s unexpected return to the city on business. She’d been obliged to play the dutiful wife—disgusting role—but he was gone once again and she very much deserved a reward. So she was here for a dual purpose: to see her rival and also find Fitz, the latter far outweighing petty curiosity.

“For heaven’s sake, speak up. Tell me where he is this instant.” After several days of Harold’s unrelenting tyranny, she needed some personal gratification, and who better than Fitz to deliver pleasure?

“I have no idea where he is,” Rosalind cooly replied, tamping down her temper with effort. Already feeling deprived with Fitz having decamped, Rosalind was accutely sensitive to the differences between herself and this intruder; the stark contrast between the chic aristocrat’s wealthy trappings and her relatively meager ones not only aggravated her but also put her out of humor. “You might want to check his home,” she sullenly said.

“I already have, you simpleton,” Clarissa snapped. “No one knows where he’s gone.” Julia had been away from home, not that she would have enlightened Clarissa in any event. As for the servants, they knew better than to divulge the whereabouts of the duke. “Do you expect him tonight? We both know he’s been sleeping with you.”

Rosalind nervously glanced around, the woman’s voice having risen in volume. “I haven’t seen him for days,” she quickly replied, needing to rid herself of this dangerous interrogator before a customer took notice. This was not the time for false modesty since the woman knew Fitz had been with her. “I have no idea of his whereabouts and I doubt I’ll see him again.”

“Is that so?” Clarissa’s smile was gloating. “I suppose he tired of your common ways,” she snidely declared, surveying Rosalind with a contemptuous glance. “Dear Fitz has such a droll sense of adventure, not to mention a libertine’s indiscretion. He allays his boredom with women like you,” she said with pointed rudeness. “I hope you didn’t get your hopes up.”

Rosalind swallowed her heated retort. She dared not antagonize this woman, the risk too great with customers near. “I believe you’re right. Ultimately, he
was
bored.” She even went so far as to look down in feigned mortification.

“I do believe you’re toying with me, you little trollop,” Clarissa murmured. “If you’re not telling me the truth about Fitz’s whereabouts, I’ll make a scene, you little bitch.” Her smile was chill. “Consider your reply carefully, Mrs. St. Vincent. I care nothing for your reputation.”

Having been unmasked as an actress, Rosalind was momentarily at a loss. She wished to ask,
How do you know my name?
But more important, she needed this woman gone. “As you apparently know, the duke visited on occasion, but I assure you, he left several days ago without mentioning his plans. I have no idea where he is. And that’s the truth.”

Clarissa stared at her, her gaze coldly appraising.